Geoffrey's mouth tightened with annoyance, as much at the stilted "thee" and "thou" speech of the older generation (in Puck's case, a much older generation) as at the jibe. "You could indeed have chosen a better moment for your summons, Robin!"
"Nay, never one more apt," the elf retorted, "The look on thy face alone must have been worth a king's ransom."
Puckish humor indeed; Robin Goodfellow was ever the prankster, as who should know better than a young man who had suffered Puck as a babysitter? But Geoffrey remembered the top elf's notions of chastisement, too, so he forced back the irritation and sighed, "Well, it's done, and the lass fled, no doubt."
" 'The lass?' " said Puck. "Dost not even know her name?"
Geoffrey shrugged irritably. "It is of no importance now. Was the matter truly so grave that it could not have waited another hour, Puck?"
"Nay, I suppose," the elf agreed. "'Twas only more enjoyable in this fashion."
Anger sprang, but Geoffrey remembered how ugly he had looked as a toad, the last time he had let himself be angry with Puck, and schooled himself to patience. "Well, then, what was this errand that could have waited, O Friend of All Who Are Wary?"
Puck chuckled. "Thou hast learned thy lessons well, lad."
"But school is out," Geoffrey countered. "'Tis a mission now, not homework. Come, tell me of it. Is it your notion of fitting work for me, or His Majesty's?"
He didn't mean King Tuan, but rather the King of the Elves. He didn't know who that individual was, exactly, and had never officially seen him—but he had made some shrewd guesses.
"Be easy in thine heart—'tis His Majesty's," Puck said, with studied nonchalance, "and 'tis he who bade me summon thee at once, saying thou must needs drop whatever else thou hadst in train."
"Then I am glad you did not catch me a few minutes sooner, when I had caught the wench up in my arms. What is this matter of supreme importance?"
"A warlord," Puck replied, watching Geoffrey closely. "An outlaw who had conquered several parishes, nigh onto a whole county, has but only now defeated the army the Count sent against him. He has established sway over the peasantry, and rules them like any lord."
Which meant exploitation and oppression. Geoffrey grinned with anticipation; giving such tyrants their due was one of the things he lived for. Unfortunately, legal excuses for it were rare. "What is his name, this warlord?"
"None know, nor have any seen him."
"What!" Geoffrey frowned. "Not even an elf?"
"'Tis so. We have discovered his battle-leaders, but he himself has not even a tent. We do not know how he gives his orders to his warriors and battle-maids; we can only speak of their effect."
"Which seems to be massive." Geoffrey frowned. "Do they have no name for him, none of any kind?"
"Aye; they call him 'Quicksilver."'
"An odd name, but fitting for one who cannot be found," Geoffrey mused. "And you say his army has shield-maidens as well as men?"
"Not shield-maidens, but warriors in their own right," Puck corrected. "He has a score of them, and score they do, for each seems to have a score of her own to settle, 'gainst men and, most pointedly, the Lord's men."
Geoffrey thought of the kind of hatred that bespoke and the ferocity that went with it, and frowned in thought. He had been trained never to strike a woman—but surely one who went in battle, and was trying to kill him, was another matter entirely. Still, it would be better if he could find this Quicksilver and bring him to justice—or death in battle, which was far more likely. With the head gone, the limbs would not know how or where to strike. "I may need to call for soldiers to gather up the leavings," he said slowly.
"An army the King must not send," Puck contradicted, "or this bandit Quicksilver may get notions above his station. 'Tis bad enough that he doth defy a count! If he should confront a king's army, we might have a full-blown rebellion afoot."
Geoffrey scowled; he knew what that meant. Lowborn or not, Quicksilver would become the focus of every disaffected lordling in Gramarye, and of any squire and knight who thought he had a score to settle with the Crown. It had been tried before, several times during the reign of Queen Catharine and King Tuan—but there was always the danger that the next try might succeed. It was a slight danger, to be sure, but a danger nonetheless.
What was far more likely was that estates and farmland would be torn apart in the battling, and that many peasants would lose their lives. "So. If His Majesty cannot send an army, he can send me."
"Do not preen thyself overmuch," Puck said with a jaundiced eye. "If thou dost think of thyself as the equal of an whole army, thou wilt shortly be dead."
Geoffrey shrugged off the comment; they both knew it was false. Still, for the sake of form, he said, "Do not worry, Puck—I am aware that I have only two arms and two legs. Still, though I might not face the whole army, I might find and defeat their commander—though 'tis scarcely chivalrous to slay a peasant."
"Then capture him if thou canst, but if 'tis his life or thine, do not hesitate to make it his. There is, after all, no loss of honor in slaying a peasant who hath defeated a count and his army."
"And great honor in freeing other peasants from a tyrant and brigand." Geoffrey grinned, his pulse quickening at the thought of real, genuine action. "Thanks for this good news, Puck. I was like to rot from inaction."
"In more ways than one," Puck muttered under his breath, then said aloud, "Ride swiftly, then, and with good heart."
"I shall," Geoffrey assured him, "for all laws of chivalry do agree on this being a noble and worthy quest. Thank you, Puck! I ride!"
And he did—he leaped on his horse and set off down the road. Puck watched him go, shaking his head, marvelling once again at the folly of mortals. Geoffrey was in such a hurry to meet a chance of death that he had not even turned to go home for a clean shirt!
Geoffrey had not gone home to pack because he always kept everything he needed for a mission with him, in his saddlebags. He had clean linen, hardtack, and a canteen which he could fill at the first stream he came to. Beyond that, he needed only his sword, which never left his side, and his dagger. He might indeed find a need for armor and a lance, though he doubted that—if he was going to take on a whole army by himself, mobility and secrecy would count for more than steel plate. If he did need it, he could always send for it—he could teleport home quickly enough, put on his armor, and teleport back. He saw no reason not to take full advantage of all his psi powers—there was no lack of honor in it, if he was to go up against a whole army. In fact, that was why the Elf King had sent himself, instead of a whole expeditionary force—that, and his skill at arms and talent for tactics.
Modesty? The need for it never occurred to Geoffrey. To believe himself capable of more than he really was would have been very bad tactics indeed. A general has to know the exact strength of his forces if he is to plan a campaign wisely, and Geoffrey had to know his own exact strengths and weaknesses for the same reasons. He was as wary of false modesty as of overconfidence. He would never make the mistake of underestimating an enemy and for the same reason, he would never underestimate himself. To some people, conceit was a moral flaw; to Geoffrey, it was a military one.
On the one hand, he knew how to pretend modesty when the occasion called for it. He had learned that most people find truth distasteful, especially the truth about their own weaknesses and vices, and someone else's strengths and virtues. To others, a frank statement of Geoffrey's abilities counted as bragging, so he had learned to hold his tongue. Shortly thereafter, he had realized it was a good tactic—for it allowed possible enemies to underestimate him.